Bad Cheap Liquor
by TheBlueLooper
Summary: Two people, Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy, rant to complete strangers about the war and their almostlove after drinking bad cheap liquor.


**Disclaimer**: Characters belong to another person.

**Author's note**: So this was my first story so I hope it doesn't show. I'd love it if you read and review (even though I don't always--but I swear that's going to change, because now that I have freetime. Which means I'll be going back to all the fics I liked and reviewing). So yeah.

**Bad Cheap Liquor**

Hit me up, Mr. Bartender. I need another drink. Give me the cheapest, strongest liquor you got. See, I want to get really smashed, my bald friend. And for that, you need a huge amount of strong alcohol that's priced Weasley-friendly.

C'mon, just a few shots. No? One shot, then? Now, don't look at me like that. If you keep that up, you'll be my mother in a few years. You don't want that to happen, my listening friend. It's too terribly scary to think about. Look, just give me anything that's cheap—I don't care if it sucks—I just want a bottle full to attempt to drink. Thank you, sir.

Look, I have a reason for being this drunk—okay, okay, I'm not really drunk per se—I'm just tipsy. Just enough tipsy-ed so that I can reason with myself that coming to a bar and getting all this crap off my chest is a good idea, okay? And at this point, I'm just being proactive about it.

Yes, this is going to be a long story, an epically long story. You better hold on to your beer coaster, 'cause it's gonna be a long ride.

See, it's been a year since my relationship with Draco Malfoy. The first anniversary of our break up. It's part of the reason why I got my idea to come in here and get slightly tipsy-ed.

Of course you want to know what happened. Everyone wants to know, because it's a funny story. He used to always be this awful arse to me. But then one morning, when we were by ourselves in the library, he just rammed me against the wall and kissed me so gently—I've never had a kiss so beautiful like that. So we dated for awhile before the war, but it was all hush-hush. He was embarrassed of me, a Weasley. I was afraid my family would hate him and me. We met on the sly every night. Gradually, our meetings would become scarcer and scarcer. During the day, I'd see him hang around with all sorts of slags, but the naïve girl in me thought he'd never actually betray my trust in him.

See, I thought I was in love with him. Stupid me. I love too easily.

Anyway, I find he's been nailing five different girls, not including me. I even see him fuck one girl. So I wait for him to tell me what's going on. As of late, he had been acting really different—all cold and bastardly. One year ago, the bastard comes up to me and tells me how he's been fucking eight or ten girls, waiting for me to find out so I would break up with him and he could finally get rid of me. Except there was a flaw in his plan: I, Ginevra Molly Weasley, am actually a whole lot dumber than he originally thought. I didn't break up with him, so it turns out that he had to break up with me instead. Once he was finally free of me, he just walked away laughing. Funny story, I know.

Then he went off and joined the war. He switched to our side and became this big part of the espionage unit, risking his life and blah blah blah. So now my Mum thinks he's a perfect boy with good intentions and a reformed heart. "He just needs a second chance." She invites him over to family dinners now, too. All my brothers and even Harry are getting along with him. It's pretty fantastic, because I have to act like I don't have seething hate for him. Fucking shit, right?

The worst part is that I tried to fall out of love with him, but I can't. I tried fucking different guys, then having a few serious relationships, and even proclaiming a period of celibacy, which lasted the two longest weeks of my life. Nothing worked. So here I am. In a bar, telling a bartender my heart's story and still loving him right this very moment.

You know, I have a pretty low alcohol tolerance level. It's really funny, because all my brothers and even my mother can booze all they want and they'll act just a bit more social. But me or my dad—oh, no, no, we couldn't hold down our liquor if the world depended on us. See, I'm leaning more towards drunkenness by each passing second, and I'm just sipping beer. Granted, I took jello-shots before I came; so maybe that's finally kicking in.

Oh but, he's dead now. Who, you ask? My father, he's dead. Post-war dead. A couple of my brothers, too. Charlie, Fred, and George. Ron's still in the hospital.

Yeah, yeah, I know you've had a bunch of war-induced headcases come in here just like me. But I'm beginning to get too drunk to care. And when I'm drunk, I talk about the war. So, lucky you, huh?

In case you're a bit slower than most, Mr. Bartender Man, I'll tell that it is the first day of the summer after my seventh year.

The war is done now, too. It's not over though. It's still happening and re-happening in my mind.

People died everywhere, all over the place. A few were idiots and died showing their "honor." Like that one guy who was walking down a woodsy trail with his two fellows, when a bomb was thrown at them, and the boy jumped onto it, and all three of them died anyway, because nothing you do really matters. Or how about the old lady who screamed under the pain of the Cruciatus Curse, but haughtily called her captors cowards until they Spell-o-taped her yap. In the autopsy, her eyes were so blood-red from the pain she felt but had to withhold, that it was confirmed that Spell-o-tape and held-in pain killed her nervous system. Fried until she was blind, deaf, mute, and dead.

They got so drawn in, lured by this notion of war and romance. Being ambassadors of bravery, loyalty, freedom, goodwill, love. They were wrapped up in that shit. And all they got was a silver medal and a flag on each coffin.

But that was only a few. Most died crying for their mothers, forgetting all dignity and rank. Imagine watching a person you barely know bleeding to death. He's got his hand desperately pressed down on the wound, but the artery in his neck has just been freshly slit so nothing will help. At first, you can tell he hasn't quite registered it. All he feels is a general wetness dribbling down his front. Then he looks down in thrilling horror. That's probably the most intimate moment you could ever have with another human being, and it feels wrong, because you barely know him. You've only seen him once or twice at a holiday party. And now you're watching him die. His face contorting into a mixture of fear and frantic dread. Him running around the battlefield, haphazardly dodging thrown curses and screaming for his Mum.

I know it sounds betraying to your heart. All those words did sound good, didn't they? Bravery? To face your greatest fears. Loyalty? Well, no one likes a two-faced, back stabbing bitch. Freedom? Anything other than liberty wouldn't be life. Goodwill? Sounds humanitarian. And lastly, love? It's supposed to the greatest of all possessions. It's supposed to carry you home and warm you with its fire.

Now, I'm not saying they don't exist. I'm saying that all those things don't work. You can't use them, and they can't help you.

See, when you're stuck in that third world, where you're neither dead nor alive, and all you can see is a flash of all the war pains you've felt and it's hard because not one good memory springs to mind, then you'll see that all those things—all that romanticism—won't help you. It's raining, and you're stuck holding onto that slippery rope, and you try screaming for help, and you try to mentally prepare yourself for death—maybe pick a few choice words for a self-eulogy, a nice conclusion to your lifetime, last moments to think about your wins and losses—but you find that you can't. You hit a wall, and you can't even muster enough self-control to think or breathe really. At this point, you're spastically trying to climb to the top, because you've quit calling for help.

And in one moment, your body stops twitching, and that primal rush of adrenaline dies down. Everything stills. Your fingers are just glued to the rope, and your head freezes with the most unpleasant thought of all. At that moment, none of those words—whether they were lovely or not—didn't mean anything to a young person about to die a life unlived. None of those words mean anything. Your family, your friends and your enemies don't matter either. Your selfish hunger for life questions you. So you ask yourself, is my life really about to end?

That was one moment when a little part of me stopped believing. But during war, you don't just have one realization. You have another, and another, and another.

I suppose it's a bit unfair of me to put the war in such a terrible light, you know. It was for a good cause—Good versus Evil—Us versus that mutant bastard. Some good things came about. A fair few surprised us all and switched to our side and our cause. But then again, the same was true vice versa.

After the war, everyone returned to schooling or work or wherever. Some missing a few family members at the dinner table, others living homeless. The memories of a war-aged people were all that was really left.

Okay, no more sentimental thoughts. I'm going home…Oops, too drunk to get off the stool. Mind passing that bottle of Kinky Kevin's Temporarararily-Sober-Up-In-Ninety-Secs-Or-Less Juice? Thanks.

I told you, Mr. Bartender Man. When I'm drunk, I talk about the war. Now, don't look so disturbed. I'm okay, really. I know I sound a bit like a cynic, but I'm not. I'm just not a romantic anymore. War and love—whatever, just trash them both. One day, I'll get over it. I'll stop having nightmares and I'll forgive Voldemort and I'll stop thinking about how half my family and most of my friends are dead. Even one day, I'll stop thinking about Malfoy. That'll be a good day. From then onwards, I'll live happily ever after. I think I deserve that, don't you?

I think I'm going to go home. I've had enough drinking for tonight. Thanks, Mr. Bartender. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

* * *

So is this the grand Champagne Room for VIP members? A little gaudy with the brass and velvet if you ask me. It's… different. 

Has it got a bar? Oh, there it is. So, they've only stocked cheap liquor. Commoner's liquor—Ogden's Firewhiskey—who drinks that stuff? Crap, all of it is crap. Just give me that whole bottle—yes, that one. No, I don't want a glass.

Tell me the classy name they've assigned you. Pammy? You don't mind if I change your name—just for tonight—to something less cheap and whory?

I like the name Gin. I used to know a girl with that nickname. No, she's not my girlfriend now—Hey, I've got a really radical idea. How about we not idly chatter about her and you give me what I came in this Champagne Room for? I think now's a time for a good lap dance.

Much better... Yes, keep doing something like that… Oh, Ginny—

Hey, why'd you stop? What? So what if I said her name? No, I told you she's not my girlfriend. She doesn't matter, not anymore. No, it's not important. Yeah, but just listen—God, can't you fucking shut up!

Okay, look… I'm sorry for yelling like that. It's just that I've been trying all day to forget about her for just one bloody moment, and I can't. It's impossible.

You really want to know what happened? Fine, I'll tell you, but at the end of story time, you'll find me repulsive.

Well, it started out in my seventh year. She was a sixth year. I saw her almost everyday and I was a prick to her until I realized I liked her. No, it was more than just teenage "liking." Maybe not quite love, but it was just this wonderful feeling. Like my whole chest warmed whenever I saw her, and all I wanted to do was glide my hands down her body and touch her skin and hair and talk to her about stupid things, like the stars or my future with her and—well, I bloody wanted to wrap my arms around her and keep her so close to me that I could hear her heart beat. I wanted to wake up each morning in her embrace, feeling the intimate warmth of our body heat. It sounds so overly descriptive, but I'm not really one with words. I don't like poetry or anything like that. That's just how I felt. And God, I must be getting slightly drunk to unearth these feelings to a complete stranger.

Seriously though. It was probably the weirdest realization of my life. First, I thought I had a fever or some health oddity. I always felt warm; my face was always slightly pink; my body felt so jittery and sweaty and flustered all the time. At first, I didn't connect it with being around her. But when it did hit me, I went after her.

We were in the library early one morning, and I pulled her aside and told her all my physical symptoms: constant blush on my pale skin which contrasted with my hair and thus was very unwanted, jitteriness, thoughts that I've never had before, etc. I said she was the cause behind it, and I just pushed her up against the wall and kissed her. She didn't seem to mind.

After that, we met every night. It was a little uncomfortable for me, you know. I went from being very private and closed to feeling warm and happy. I suddenly didn't mind the Gryffindors that much, and I started to understand why people didn't like the dungeons and cold weather. Everything just looked so hopeful. The only problem was that we had to hide our relationship from everyone, because I just had this feeling that no one would want us to be together and they'd try to stop us. I tried to ignore that feeling, but it wouldn't go away.

Yeah, but then my Father came into the picture, and everything went to hell. I was initiated as a young Death Eater. I had always known that I was going to join the war on the wrong side, and it didn't used to bother me. But suddenly, it just started feeling wrong and all because of her. And I couldn't deal with feeling all these new moral things. I mean, I thought I had it all figured out, but she just sprung all this different stuff on me. And this different stuff—love and happiness and doing good because that's all you can really do—it was too new for me to digest. It just really confused me. So I shoved it all aside and concentrated on just living through another day. And the only way to do that was to fully prepare myself.

Now, don't think of me as a completely heartless bastard. I had to do what I had to do. I wanted to survive. I was selfish in that way. I wanted to live. Forget how many lives had to be sacrificed for mine, I wanted to have my life. I hate that I used to be such a bloody monster. I killed to keep my life; I lied and stole and murdered to live. Disgusting.

But before I could fully live my Death Eaterhood, I knew I had to break things off with her. I couldn't be distracted. I had to be alert. I had to stay alive. And the only way to do that was to make all the right moves, because in that world one wrong move—hell, one wrong word—could get you killed and thrown into a ditch.

And… and it wasn't just that. The first time I missed one of our nightly meetings, I had to go to a Death Eater meeting. Soon, I met with her less and less, and I met with the others more and more. She thought I was getting disinterested, but that was far from the truth. I was being dragged away from her. She was this powerful addiction, and my whole being was screaming for her, but no one was letting me get near her. In school, I'd see her in the hallways and I couldn't rush to her side and feel her hands. It was like everyone was against us, and forcing us to part ways. I realized that that feeling I had had earlier, the feeling that everyone was trying to pry us apart, was true. She had to stand behind Dumbledore, and I had to stand behind the Dark Lord. We had different futures. We could never be.

In war, everyone kills someone. It's not called murder though. Funny actually, because I've never quite understood the difference. In the end, your hands are covered in their blood. And no matter who you are, you will still stand in front of the sink like every other guilt-ridden murderer, washing the old blood off, and you'll find that you just can't get rid of that smell. Only someone who has actually sifted his hands through another person's blood can really know what I'm talking about. That awful smell of blood—slaughtered blood and burning flesh. It stays with you and clings to your clothes. Sometimes, I swear I can smell a whiff of it just lingering around me.

Every time I got back from these meetings and saw her, I rushed up to her like she was my savior out of this mess. But then I realized I couldn't touch her—not with my hands. My hands still smelled like old blood. So I drew myself away from her even more and burrowed more into this horrible world.

The killing got easier. The burden got lighter. Everything got more warped and so very fucked up. My mind started to get all twisted, like I wasn't even human anymore. I began to imagine these innocent people, the people about to be murdered, as little paper cut-outs made of cardboard and spray-painted with faces and smiles. They were just made of paper, I swear. And since they weren't real people, I just sort of stabbed them in their cardboard gut. These little paper people would spew all sorts of red stuff on me. I no longer could recognize the red stuff—to me, it was just red paint. Imagining this made my job easier.

But she wouldn't leave me alone to my own dementia. Even while I was being fucking tormented by this psychological shit, she wouldn't leave. She kept asking me what was wrong and why I was different. She didn't know that she should be running from me. I was dangerous and mad. My head wasn't right.

So in one of my wildly miscalculated decisions, I made my mind up. I had to get her away from me. I had to make her forget me and just think that our thing wasn't anything special, just another school fling. I started fucking different girls, lots of different girls. At first, just to guide her away from me. But sex is probably the worst weapon. Anyhow, she stood by until the last second when I told her to leave me alone. That was one fucking year ago. Yes, I'm here to commemorate that moment tonight in a really celebratory way.

I'm getting drunk, because I'm not getting a lap dance. Which is fine by me. I won't tell anyone if you don't run to the press. I just really needed to tell someone about her, and how I tried to protect her and how I miss her. And if getting drunk will help me, then so be it. I mean, there'd be no other way to ever get me to confess all this shit. I'd have to be intoxicated, and so I am. So I am, my friend.

You want to know what happened afterwards? You're one of those curious cats, aren't you? Well, after I left her, the war really started. And I was doing just fine. I was a good minion who killed and tortured at every beck and call. Obedient and mentally ill.

Until one night when I learned that the Dark Lord was planning on killing her entire family. And as soon as I found out, I just sort of flew out of there. I don't even remember how I got there; all I remember is standing in front of Dumbledore and telling him everything and Snape preparing me to be a spy for the Order. It happened all too fast. Everything after that felt like I'd been in a whirlwind, a tornado; it was too fast for me to keep up. I had made big decisions in a matter of seconds, and everything changed because of it. But I'd never felt so relieved. And while I was off spying for the right and good side, I just missed her. She's the reason why I switched over.

After the war ended, I thought that maybe I could see her again and tell her everything, but she doesn't seem to care anyway. But I'm okay around her family. In fact, her mother loves me. And isn't that perfect? I'm finally in with her family, and she doesn't give a shit about me. She doesn't want anything to do with me. I think she's even embarrassed of me. Well, that's fine. I always knew she was too beautiful for me.

Okay, no more drinks. I should probably go. It was her brothers and my famous pal, Harry Potter, who brought me here to cheer me up from whatever heart ailment this is. Worked well, didn't it?

But before I leave, I just want to say one more thing. Before I met her, I was more of a cynic. I didn't believe in much of anything really. Love and honor and God—they didn't mean much. But she made me into—well, certainly not a romantic—but I'm not a cynic anymore. I guess I can just believe now. And one day, I'll have her and I'll make her believe in everything like she used to. And I've decided something. I think tomorrow's going to be that day. I'm going over to her place and telling her everything. I don't care if she rejects me. She ought to know. Besides, at this point, I can't get anymore pathetic, can I now? I'm miserable now, but maybe tomorrow might be a better day.

Well, I've just spent a long time pouring out my whole life to a stranger—a champagne room girl at that. Never done this before. Must be the cheap liquor—I never drink cheap liquor and this never happens so that must be it. Shit, you must think I'm one strange fucker. You do? Well, I am. After this war, who isn't?

I need to go home and sleep this all off. You know, you should be a therapist or maybe a bartender.

* * *

**Author's note**: Hah, caught ya. Since you've just read, you now must go and review! On a serious note, this was meant to be a one-shot, but tell me if you liked the idea and I might come up with a sequel or even a prequel. I actually wanted to give an epilogue with Draco and Ginny meeting at the club's bar and somehow working things out, but no. That didn't feel right. The problem I found is that it's hard to keep that dreary post-war tone and come up with a nice way to pull the two together. Because I'm not into sad endings. So I'm just leaving it up to your good imaginations. And maybe hoping for a genius epiphany. 


End file.
